MANY RESIDENTS of Greenfield know Greenfield River Park as the local dog park. Others play softball or pickleball there. Some, like Batch, call it home. His small blue and orange tent is tucked in the woods so close to third base he has collected a bucket full of errant balls that have landed in his campsite.
Late one day toward the end of January, Batch stands quietly at his campfire, feeding it logs and kindling. Though his real name is William Batchelder, he goes by Batch, “as in a batch of brownies,” he explains. Barking dogs and people playing pickleball can be heard in the distance. His campsite is efficient and tidy. Pots and pans hang neatly on a nearby tree. Concrete blocks piled in a simple U-shape contain his campfire, and double as a cookstove when he lays a grill on top. “Everything has its place,” he said.
Even though he’s in his mid-sixties, Batch seems undaunted by the chill as evening settles in. “These open winters are nothing, I could live in weather like this all year round,” he said. An open winter is one with little or no snow.
He started camping after losing his long-term job as a cook in a restaurant that closed down a few months into the pandemic. No longer able to afford his apartment, he pitched his tent along the river. He never imagined he would still be there three years later.
Batch appreciates the peace and quiet of rough living. He points to some trees along the riverbank where he has spotted a bald eagle waiting to swoop down and snatch an unlucky rabbit for lunch. But recently, his enthusiasm for camping has dampened, “It’s getting old,” he said, “I’d like to get into an apartment.”
Unlike many unsheltered people who suffer from frostbite and hypothermia in the coldest months, Batch grew up on a farm where he honed skills that help him survive outside. He keeps an ample pile of logs dry and ready for his fire, chopping kindling with a hatchet so sharp it cuts through the wood like butter. The amount of wood he bucks up these days is trivial for someone who once cut and split (by hand) 80 cords of firewood per year. Inside his tent, he’s arranged a pile of bed clothes so thick he says he’s hot when he sleeps even in winter.
The problem is that the skills he has relied on to survive in the woods are very different from the skills he needs to get out of them. Without a car, it’s hard for him to get around to different agencies to apply for housing or even know what agencies can help him, and with what. Until this winter, the only professionals that Batch had contact with were the Greenfield police, who regularly conduct welfare checks on unsheltered people.
Just to complicate things even more, Batch has a medical problem, a large hernia that likely needs surgery. His primary physician retired early in the pandemic and he currently has no doctor who can assess him and refer him to a surgeon. Before he has surgery, he’ll need an apartment as it’s pretty hard to recover from major surgery in a tent.
“The challenges Batch faces illustrate the complexity of getting unsheltered people into permanent housing,” said Bill Miller, vice president of housing and homelessness for Clinical Support Options, the agency which will soon be managing the shelter in both Greenfield and Northampton.
Fortunately, Batch’s cousin, Greg Stacy, a landscaper laid off for the winter, has time and energy to help move the ball forward in his search for housing. “Having a relative step in like this and help someone navigate the process is extremely, extremely, extremely rare,” said Miller.
Since the start of February, Stacy has picked Batch up at his campsite and driven him around to meet with staff at a total of 11 agencies in three different counties. “I figured I’ve put about 120 hours into the project,” Stacy said. “Everyone we’ve talked to in all these different agencies has been fantastic. But no one has said, ‘We’ll take it from here, Greg.’”
Like most communities, there are no agencies in Greenfield with funding to help unsheltered people navigate the convoluted process of applying for subsidized housing. Miller plans to change all that, as he oversees an expected $23 million expansion to the shelter and its programs, including some nearby subsidized apartments. He is currently hiring housing navigators who will meet with anyone homeless and looking for housing, whether they are staying in the shelter or not. After the building expansion, the shelter will also serve as a resource center with one-stop shopping where unsheltered and other homeless folks can go to search for housing. But that expansion is months in the future.
For now, Batch and Stacy have navigated the process on their own. It hasn’t been easy.
The first hurdle was replacing his lost personal identification documents necessary to complete housing applications. The documents included his birth certificate, Social Security card, RMV ID card, and discharge papers from Malmstrom Air Force where he served in his twenties. “Unfortunately, you need all that to get all that,” said Charity Day, associate director of client services at Life Path, the first agency they contacted.
Stacy first tried to help Batch get a birth certificate, which was necessary to get a Social Security card and a RMV ID card. He called Conway, a hill town west of Greenfield where Batch was born, and was told that birth certificates need to be requested in person. Stacy suggested someone at Town Hall must know Batch and be able to vouch for him. Someone did and the birth certificate was reissued. It was a strategy that worked well in a town with less than 2,000 residents, but would fail just about anywhere else.
Stacy and Batch then drove around gathering applications from several local housing authorities in addition to the 21-page statewide CHAMP application for subsidized housing. “I’ve never filled out so many forms,” Batch said. “I signed my life away.”
According to Day, wait times for the statewide housing list can vary, but range anywhere from six months to several years. Since Batch is living outdoors and chronically homeless, he may be able to get into housing sooner rather than later, but it all depends on the availability of housing units which are in low supply.
“The lack of available units is the biggest challenge that we face getting people into housing, ” said Miller.
Now that he has all of his personal identification documents, Batch can fill out applications for VA subsidized housing. Both Day and Miller say that his veteran status will facilitate his search for an apartment as the wait list for VA subsidized units is shorter. Stacy also set up an appointment through the VA for Batch to see a primary care physician, so his hernia could be assessed and treated.
There are a few temporary options, where people can live as they wait for an apartment to become available. Congregate housing is a type of subsidized housing in which residents may share a kitchen and bathroom, or even a room. Batch isn’t interested. He says that some of the people who live in these units in and around Greenfield use drugs, and he doesn’t want to live too close to them.
Congregate housing isn’t for everyone, Miller said. “People are individuals. What works for one person doesn’t work for another,” he said. “That all just adds to the challenge of helping these people find permanent housing.”
Batch admits communal living isn’t his thing. The local shelter is another communal situation he steers clear of. Even in the dead of winter, he’d rather stay in a tent than in the shelter which he describes as both confining (he cites an 8 p.m. curfew) and unruly. “People steal your things there. I can’t deal with that,” he said.
“They don’t mix well,” said Todd Dodge, the police lieutenant who oversees welfare checks on encampments of unsheltered people around Greenfield. “Everything is all quiet at that campsite now, but there’s also been times when we’ve been called to the shelter or the park for some conflict with someone or another down there.”
To avoid situations that might lead to interpersonal conflicts and problems, Batch has decided to wait for a VA or state subsidized apartment in his tent, toughing it out in temperatures as low as minus eight Fahrenheit.
He’s not alone. Across the state, hundreds of people were living outside this winter, as some nights in the western and central regions of the state dipped to record-breaking low temperatures.
“There have always been people camping out,” said Dodge. “What’s changed is that more and more are out there all year round. Hat’s off to them. I couldn’t do it. I like my creature comforts too much.”